


Feeding Life

by trascendenza



Category: Dead Like Me
Genre: Community: dlm_fanfiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-31
Updated: 2007-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trascendenza/pseuds/trascendenza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rube's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeding Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the dlm_fanfiction challenge [Rube + sunflower](http://community.livejournal.com/dlm_fanfiction/6285.html).

Just a sack of useless flesh, now.

"You gonna get over it sometime this century, bub?" The fellow, Dane, taps foot impatiently, gesturing his hands in a 'let's get a move on' gesture.

Dead. Fucking. Flesh.

"Have some goddamned respect, you impudent scourge of the after life."

That was all he was.

"We need to get a move on. Boss wants to talk to you. Besides, it ain't right to sit over your own corpse like this. He says it's better if you watch the autopsy, not all creepy like this."

Rube continued to stare at his own lifeless face, unheeding of Dane. In addition to being a complete buffoon, the man wore aviator's glasses, and Rube made it a point in life—and, well, now he supposed, death—never to take someone seriously who wore rights that were not earned. Dane might have been many things, but Rube knew on sight that piloting was not one of them.

"Leave me, sir. I give you my word that I will come and see this 'boss' of yours. However, _if_ you do not give me time for due and proper homage, I also swear to you will spend the rest of your undead days regretting it."

Dane opened his mouth to speak again but was quelled by Rube's fierce stare. He left, grumbling and muttering, but didn't look back.

Rube squatted, leaning back on his heels, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene.

The grass was coated in blood—_his_ blood—everywhere. Even when the gangs had bled in the streets it had never been like this. The cement quickly masked the color, but this green, this brilliant vivid green just enhanced it.

He… well, his body, was facedown, stretched out in a futile attempt to reach his gun. He'd known that tonight either he or Vincent would die. Unfortunately, he'd put all his eggs in one basket and bet it would be Vincent, and who was on his way to feed the worms now?

The minutes passed into hours passed into days; in his non-corporeal state, he had no need to eat, drink, sleep. He spent the time re-living every moment that had lead to this, to this, this—

For once, he was at a loss for words.

The chill winter frost kept him looking lively. He wanted to shut his eyes, to dig himself a grave, to do _something_. But no one came for him, not even Vincent's men.

The fucker always had been careless.

But after awhile, even his anger burned out. No more bargaining chips left on the table.

The third day was coming to a close and he didn't have any of the answers he wanted—no—that he _demanded_.

This couldn't be it. It couldn't end here, like this. A dead sack of flesh.

There had to be more. Right?

He sighed, sitting. Strange how he could almost feel the ground under him, almost believe that this was all some bad dream, that he'd wake up with his wife in his arms, his daughter tugging at his sleeve…

Giving up, he looked to the sky. The sun was shining at its mid-afternoon peak, all white and golden glory, unfit for mortals to gaze upon. And here he was, gazing, without the slightest flinch. "No mortal eyes, mine," he whispered.

The light that should have been painful to see was instead pure and beautiful.

Looking back at the grass, a strange smile etched his features.

"Maybe I'll help the flowers grow," he said.

He stood and left, didn't look back, only forward, towards the sun.


End file.
